Chapter 7
Symond
She looked different, no longer the perfect student hiding behind Tehvan’s protection or a disheveled ward.
No. She looked… hardened. New scars donned her chin and wrists but he knew she hadn’t suffered nearly as much as he had.
It had only been a month since he left the nightmare disguised as a respectable school.
The moment her eyes landed on him, he saw it. Shock. Fear.
He felt a grim satisfaction rise in his chest as she took an instinctive step back, her hand gripping the strap of her satchel like it was some kind of lifeline. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
“Elora.” He let his gaze drag over her, like a scalpel peeling back layers of flesh. It wasn’t just a look, it was a dissection, a method Thorn had used on him: to see beyond the surface, to cut through the defenses, to lay bare the vulnerabilities hidden underneath.
“Symond?” Her voice was trembling. Whether it was from fear or disbelief, Symond couldn’t tell. Her wide eyes darted between him and the others, as though she were still trying to piece together how he was here, standing in front of her, when he was supposed to be far away with the Ministry.
“You two know each other?” Rell’s voice cut through the silence, his sharp gaze shifted between them, missing nothing.
Elora seemed to struggle to find words to say.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Symond said, his voice practically dripping with bitterness.
His gaze flickered to Rell and Violette.
They didn’t know him well, and he’d kept it that way on purpose.
He wasn’t an open book, not with them, not with anyone.
But now, thanks to Elora, some things he’d buried might start clawing their way to the surface.
Of course, she had to show up and ruin his chance to start over.
How was she even here? The last time he saw her, she was on her knees, playing servant to Thorn during the departing ceremony.
It had been satisfying, watching her brought so low, stripped of that smug self-righteousness she always wore like armor.
Leaving her behind had been a relief, a chance to forget her smug smiles, her pathetic sobs, everything about her.
And now here she was. Damn her.
Elora took a shaky step back, her hand brushing against the edge of the table behind her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
The tension in the room thickened, choking the air. Even Rell’s usual ease was gone, replaced with a quiet intensity as he observed the exchange.
Violette, standing off to the side with her arms crossed, raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You brought her here,” she said pointedly, her sharp gaze slicing toward Rell. “Did you know she might be a problem?”
“I didn’t… well, maybe,” Rell replied, his eyes flicking between Elora and Symond. He stepped forward slightly, focusing on Symond. “What’s your problem with her?”
“She’s from the Institute,” he spat.
Violette’s eyes widened. “Another runaway apprentice?”
Symond chuckled darkly, the sound void of humor. “No, not an apprentice. She failed. She’s a ward. She should be wasting away there with the rest of the rejects.”
Violette frowned, her gaze shifting to Elora. “You’re a ward?”
Elora’s fingers gripped the table tightly as she forced herself to speak. “I was.”
“You are,” Symond corrected. “Don’t confuse escaping the Institute with escaping who you are. Some things, you carry with you.”
"Maybe you’re right," she said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to sting. "Is that what you’re doing here? Trying to escape who you are? Do they know—"
“Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking with every word.
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand.
He’d endured pain and humiliation. Because of her!
She had no right to judge him. No right to speak like she understood what it meant to survive in a world that wanted to break you, to destroy you piece by piece until there was nothing left but scraps.
Symond’s lips curled into a snarl. He could feel the heat in his chest, the bitter taste of rage and something darker, something vulnerable that he couldn’t let her—or anyone—see.
“That’s enough,” Rell said sharply, stepping between them. His usual playful demeanor had vanished, replaced by something far more commanding. “I don’t know what went down between you two, but we’re not doing this here.”
But Symond ignored him. “Tell me,” Symond took a slow step forward. “Did you have fun with Gerard? Did he do as I asked?”
Elora froze, her entire body stiffening. Her cheeks flushed, a sheen of unshed tears glistening in her wide eyes. Symond could see it, she understood exactly what he meant.
He took another step forward, his gaze completely skipping over the mercenary clad in all black between them. “Go on, Elora. Answer me.”
Her lips quivered, but no sound came out.
“Enough,” Rell said sharply.
Symond ignored him again, his fury radiating off him in waves as he closed the distance between him and Elora, the tension in his frame barely restrained.
Rell moved in a flash, his hand shooting out and gripping Symond’s shoulder firmly. The pressure stopped him in his tracks.
“I said enough,” Rell repeated through clenched teeth.
Symond turned his head slightly, his glare shifting to Rell. “You don’t know what she did,” he growled.
“And I don’t care,” Rell snapped, his tone firm as his grip tightened on Symond’s shoulder.
He could feel the weight of Rell’s hand like a leash, and it made his blood boil. Rell’s gaze flicked briefly to Elora, lingering just long enough for Symond to notice. He saw it, the faint shift in the mercenary’s expression.
She was staring at the ground, her shoulders tense and rigid. He had struck a nerve; he could tell by the way her breath hitched, by the slight tremor in her frame. Weak. She was still weak.
And yet, here Rell was, standing between them like some self-appointed shield. Why? What was so special about her that she warranted his protection?
“Why is she even here?” Symond spit out the words.
“Back up,” Rell said evenly, like he was talking to an unruly child. “And I’ll tell you.”
The nerve. But after a tense pause, he took a step back, if only to get this over with.
Rell released his shoulder, straightening as he crossed his arms. “She’s here because we need her,” he said. “She’s an alchemist, and she’ll be making the shards we need for the job.”
Symond barked out a laugh. He couldn’t let Rell see the irritation bubbling under his skin.
“She’s going to make the shards?” he asked, his voice dripping with mockery.
“What are you going to do when she screws it up? Because trust me, she will. There’s a reason she is a ward and not an apprentice. ”
The lie rolled off his tongue easily, though his stomach twisted slightly. He knew better. She was one of the most skilled alchemists of their class, far better than anyone wanted to admit, least of all him.
But he wasn’t about to say that out loud.
Rell’s eyes narrowed, “We’re done here.”
He looked at Violette and gestured toward the door. “You and Symond are scouting the manor. I need patrol schedules, guard rotations, and a map of the grounds. Take as long as you need, but I expect something useful by the time you’re back.”
There he went, pretending to play leader. “And what are you going to be doing?”
“Elora and I will start working on the shards.”
Symond huffed, his lips curling into a sneer as he reached for his belt, checking the daggers and vials already strapped in place. “Of course you are,” he muttered under his breath.
He turned sharply and stalked toward the door without sparing another glance at Elora. He didn’t wait for Violette, didn’t care if she was following or not.
Rell didn’t move from his spot, standing firmly between him and the brat. There was always someone protecting her. Always. It was pathetic.
She hadn’t said a word since he’d mentioned Gerard, just stood there like the scared little girl she’d always been. Symond scoffed, his irritation bubbling over as he yanked open the door.
“Still hiding behind someone else,” he said, loud enough for her to hear before he stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.